


But Then Again, I Might

by alwayseven



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayseven/pseuds/alwayseven





	But Then Again, I Might

It was a mutual decision, though Brendon couldn’t remember saying anything about it.

“So, let’s just take a break after this, yeah?” Jon had said, bare feet tucked underneath him, the four of them sitting in the middle of the stage after sound check. They’d been in Tacoma, the third date on their three month tour, and they’d started talking about options for when the tour was over.

Four albums in three years and they were ready for a break. Spencer and Ryan had agreed, talking about their plans, about going home to Vegas to catch up on things left behind by life on the road. Brendon had just sat there, head down, picking at the seam of his jeans and wondering how he was supposed to go back.

Now, at the end, Brendon couldn’t help wishing he’d said something that afternoon, that he’d opened his mouth and done something to try and change it. Looking at the smiles on their faces, at the relief written all over Jon, maybe saying something wouldn’t have made the outcome any different, but maybe he wouldn’t have this sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, this feeling he couldn’t shake, like everything changed from here on.

The tour ended in New York, at the Roseland, and when it was over, the post show high, the thrill of playing for thousands of people on the last night was dulled down by the fact that Brendon had no idea what was going to happen next.

That’s where they’d left it, and Brendon was a “go with the flow” kind of guy, but he’d spent the last four years on tour, seeing the same people, moving from city to city. The idea of being in one place for more than a few days should have been comforting, but mostly it freaked him out.

They closed the show with Northern Downpour, and Brendon stood at the side of the stage, staring out into the lights and the screaming crowd. Spencer stood behind his kit, Ryan to the right, Jon at the other end, and Brendon couldn’t quite make himself go out and finish. He didn’t want it to be done, even if it was only temporary.

He went out and sang this song that summed up everything for him, the way he felt about his job, his friends, his _life_ , and when the music stopped, he wanted to make it start up again, to keep going.

“Thank you guys so much,” Ryan said into the mic, and Brendon stood, head bent, sweat dripping into his eyes, hair hanging in his face and listened to the swell of the crowd.

“We’ll see you guys next time,” Jon said and it felt different, it felt like a half-truth.

Brendon flung his arm around Spencer’s shoulder as they walked off stage.

He could feel it all beginning to fade away, closing everything down just like every night after a show but with the finality that always came at the end of a tour.

It had started with that first mention of a break, this claustrophobic feeling, and he hadn’t even gone back yet. He’d spent the last three months avoiding every thought and mention of the end, and now that it was here he didn’t know what to do.

“You’re quiet,” Jon said, stripping out of his shirt. The dressing room was hectic, crowded as they all ran around trying to get their shit together. He rubbed at his wet hair with a towel. It was short again, now that summer was coming on, and Brendon clenched his hand into a fist to keep from reaching out.

“Mm,” he shrugged like that was an answer. He hid it in a grin and said, “let’s go get fucked up.”

There was a party at Angels and Kings, a send off of sorts for a job well done, and Brendon was looking forward to it, to the throng of people, the noise and the distraction.

Jon gave him a grin that even after all this time, five years later, still made Brendon’s heart beat a little faster, made his skin a little warmer. Jon threw his towel across the room into the pile of dirty clothes and pulled Brendon by his t-shirt. “I like the way you think,” he said and Brendon let himself be led.

“I’ll meet you guys out there,” Jon said, letting go of Brendon as they walked through the back corridor. “I’m gonna call Cass.”

Brendon waved him on absently. Spencer and Ryan were discussing something having to do with environmentally friendly weather proofing for the deck they were adding to the house they’d spent the last year building. Brendon was less than interested.

They waited by the car for Jon and when he came out, he was smiling. They were crammed into the back of a car, Brendon’s leg thrown over Spencer’s knee, ass up against the door. They drove through midtown, Brendon's forehead pressed awkwardly against the window, his neck at an uncomfortable angle. He could feel Jon’s arm flung across the back of the seat to allow as much room as possible, his fingers warm where they rested on Brendon’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Angels and Kings was packed, swarming with well-wishers and hangers-on. Brendon made a beeline for the bar, for a shot just to take the edge off the anxiety that had started to build, the restless energy he didn’t know what to do with.

“Cheers,” Jon said, coming up behind Brendon, a hand on his back, peering over him to get the bartender’s attention.

“Cheers,” Brendon agreed, tossing back a shot of whiskey that made his throat burn and warmth spread to his fingertips and stomach.

“Hey,” Jon said, after he’d gotten a beer. He tilted his head. “What are you looking forward to most?”

Brendon just blinked at him. “About?”

“Being home,” Jon said, grinning like duh, this was the most obvious question in the world.

“Oh,” Brendon said, blankly. He hadn’t really given it that much thought, had tried to think of anything but. “Sleeping,” he said because it was a good, safe answer.

He didn’t bother asking Jon, he hadn’t heard anything but how Jon was looking forward to being home with Cassie, to finally finding a place together, and all the things they were going to do. Brendon didn’t really care to hear any of it again.

The whiskey was sitting heavy in Brendon’s stomach, and he was starting to wish he’d just gone back to the hotel. There were too many people, too many thoughts running around in Brendon’s head, too much time that wasn’t slowing down.

Brendon spent forty minutes nursing a beer and talking to random people who wanted to talk to him about themselves before he called it quits.

He found Ryan to tell him he was taking off. Ryan and Spencer were bent over each other by the bar, Ryan trying to convince Spencer to let him lick salt off his wrist.

“Hey, I’m going to take off,” Brendon said. “Have you seen Jon?” It was almost automatic at this point, looking around, asking. This thing, this consuming beat in his head that pounded out _Jon Jon Jon_ had lessened a little over the years, wasn’t quite as intense and frightening as it had been those first months, and thank God for that. But it was second nature now, to look for Jon, to want to know where he was. Only now he did a little better job of trying to hide it.

Ryan stopped trying to grab Spencer’s arm and made a face. “He disappeared a while ago, I didn’t ask where he was going.” Spencer was laughing and trying to push Ryan away and he caught Brendon’s eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

“Okay, well, have fun,” Brendon mumbled and took off, glad to not have to witness Spencer and Ryan Flirtation Time.

He caught a cab outside the bar, It smelled smoky, and there was an underlying smell of curry that made the whiskey react in Brendon’s stomach. He couldn’t quite figure out what the reason for this melancholy was. They’d gone on breaks before, taken months to figure out what was going to happen next. But before there had always been a plan, for another album, another tour. They hadn’t said anything this time, just agreed to see where things went. Brendon wasn’t comfortable not knowing.

The cab driver charged him thirty-six dollars to take him two and a half miles. Brendon shoved the bills in his hand and stumbled out of the club, feeling tired and achy in a way that made him feel older than his twenty-four years.

Brendon took the elevator up to his room, the eleventh floor with views of Times Square from his window. Jon was sitting outside Brendon’s room, elbows on his knees, when Brendon came around the corner.

Something in Brendon loosened a little, and he smiled when Jon looked up and saw him.

“Hey, where did you go?” Brendon fumbled in his pocket for his room key.

“I was talking to Cassie, and then you disappeared, and I thought you came back here.” Jon stood up and leaned his head against Brendon’s shoulder, as Brendon keyed open the door.

Brendon flipped the light on and bent to pull off his boots. Jon closed the door behind him, and when Brendon stood, Jon was bouncing on the balls of his feet, thrumming with restless energy that Brendon recognized, that end-of-tour excitement combined with the beers he’d watched him down at the bar. It made the base of his skull throb.

“So what are you doing here?” Brendon pulled at the hem of his shirt, digging his bare toes into the carpet, soft and distracting beneath his feet.

Jon shrugged. “We’re not going to see each other for a while,” Jon said like Brendon needed reminding, like it wasn’t this sharp pain in his stomach.

It wasn’t the end, he knew it wasn’t the end, but there was something about the way Jon had hugged him a little harder as the tour picked up speed, the absence of space between them when Jon sat down to watch a movie with him, like there was something Jon wasn’t saying.

Brendon had spent the last five years being in love with Jon. He didn’t think a few months apart was going to change that. It felt different these days, softer. More a part of him than anything else, like the music and Ryan and Spencer, and it wasn’t painful anymore. Well, not mostly.

“I’m sort of beat,” Brendon said, and Jon just shrugged, kicking off his flip flops and climbing onto the bed, sitting back against the pillows. He reached for the remote control and flipped through the channels until he found an episode of Family Guy.

Brendon stood by the door, watching, trying to figure out what was going on here.

He gave up and went into the bathroom to wash his face. He brushed his teeth and changed into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from their first tour, one he could remember stealing off the merch table with a thrill.

When he came out of the bathroom Jon was lying on his back, his t-shirt rucked up, arms folded underneath his head. Brendon stood awkwardly in the doorway. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. He didn’t know what _to_ say to Jon when everything he wanted to say was nothing Jon wanted to hear. They’d tried that once before, Brendon leaning into Jon’s space, mouth open, and Jon pushing him away, gentle but firm.

Brendon sat at the edge of the bed and just stared at Jon like he could will him into talking, will him into explaining what he was doing in Brendon’s room at one in the morning when they had early flights to catch.

Jon kept watching the damn tv and Brendon wanted to hit him, out of frustration and helplessness and just simply for the fact that he was Jon and Brendon hadn’t ever stopped wanting.

“Jon.” Brendon’s throat was scratchy, his mouth dry and he was too tired for this. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Jon turned his head on the pillow and looked like he didn’t have an answer to that. Which was fine, Brendon was used to Jon not having any answers for Brendon. Jon unfolded his arm and held it out, patted the space next to him. “I wanted cuddle time,” he said with the grin that he used when he was trying to get out of something. And most of the time it worked.

Brendon pulled his legs up underneath him and moved to his side, knees bent, cheek pillowed on his folded arm. Jon lowered his arm, pulling Brendon closer, and slid his fingers under the sleeve of Brendon’s t-shirt, rubbing circles into Brendon’s skin.

Brendon listened to Jon breathe, to the way he laughed as he watched tv, and closed his eyes. He let himself be lulled to that pleasant place between sleep and consciousness where everything felt soft and warm. There wasn’t enough time, and Brendon remembered when he’d just known that he’d always have this, even if he’d never really have Jon.

Something made him open his eyes, and when he did, the tv was off, and Jon was on his side facing Brendon, a hand on his hip underneath Brendon’s shirt like it had every right to be there.

Brendon blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. Jon was just watching Brendon, and it was kind of weird, creepy almost, just watching.

Brendon’s legs had started to ache, knees cramping a little, and he unfolded himself and rolled to his back, Jon’s hand falling away. The room was too warm, and he was sweating. “What are you still doing here?” Brendon muttered, staring up at the ceiling.

“Brendon,” Jon said, and something in the way he said it, rough and a little impatient, made Brendon turn and look at him. Jon was suddenly a lot closer, crowded up against Brendon in a way that made Brendon hyper aware of his own body, the way his shirt moved against his skin when he took a breath, where his sweat pants had ridden lower on his hips.

Jon was looking at Brendon with this intense concentration, like he was trying to figure something out. “Aren’t you going to miss me?” he mumbled, and his mouth was way too close. He smelled so achingly familiar, like weed and that weird organic soap he used and like he’d been chewing Altoids.

“And?” Brendon didn’t really get the point. They were going to miss each other, just like Jon was going to miss Spencer and Ryan. So what. It didn’t explain anything, what Jon was even doing here in Brendon’s room, let alone what Jon was doing lying next to Brendon and making him feel like he was missing something.

“And nothing,” Jon whispered.

Brendon had a split second to panic, and then Jon closed that last inch of space between them, moving his lips over Brendon’s, mouth open, breath warm against Brendon’s skin.

Jon tasted sweet. His lips were soft and there was stubble where his jaw rubbed against Brendon’s. Brendon exhaled sharply, breathed hard into Jon’s mouth and pulled back, panting.

“What are you doing?” and he had meant for it to come out sharp, but it was a jumble of sound, way more breathless than he wanted.

“Mmm,” Jon said in this low, rumbly voice that Brendon felt down his spine. He touched his thumb to Brendon’s lower lip, and followed the movement with his eyes. “Kissing you,” he mumbled, and that was not the answer Brendon needed, but it didn’t matter, because Jon just leaned back in, brushing his lips against Brendon’s tongue, licking into Brendon’s mouth. He made a rough sound like a groan and pushed his arm underneath Brendon’s shoulders, hauling him over him so quickly, Brendon didn’t think to object until it was too late. Jon had his thighs spread and their hips were lined up and Jon had his hands on Brendon’s waist, fingers pressing into his skin.

They kissed, lips sliding wetly against each other, Jon running his hands down Brendon’s back, moving his hips lazily until they were both breathing hard, and Brendon was trying to force himself to remember why this couldn’t happen.

Jon’s fingers were gentle, pushing Brendon’s hair out of his eyes, sliding down to cup his jaw, and Brendon was shaking a little. There were things running around in Brendon’s head, things he should say, things he should do. Pushing Jon away was the one thing he was emphatically not doing that he should, because Jon tasted like whiskey, and this couldn’t ever be just a fuck for Brendon, but Jon was here, pushing his hips against Brendon’s, and Brendon was selfish enough to take everything Jon was offering. Even if it wasn’t real.

“You want to?” Jon mumbled against Brendon’s lips, shifting his hips. The automatic response was _yes, fuck, please_ , and Brendon was going to pay for it later, but he just nodded, digging his fingers into Jon's back, as Jon pressed kisses across Brendon’s shoulder blades.

Jon fucked him face down in the pillows, and Brendon let him, just pushed his ass back into it and dug his teeth into his lip, and when Jon pressed his forehead to the sweat damp dip of Brendon’s spine, mouth open against Brendon’s skin, Brendon just shuddered and came, hot and wet against the sheets.

 

* * *

 

Brendon knew before he even opened his eyes that Jon was gone. He didn’t need to see, didn’t have to feel around. His head ached, his body ached, and there was a hollow sense of loneliness that he didn’t want to think about.

He took a long, hot shower, head pressed to the tile, water sliding down his back and he jerked off to the memory of last night, the way Jon had tucked his nose against Brendon’s cheek afterward and huffed, kissed the corner of Brendon’s mouth, fingers rubbing Brendon’s come-stained belly until Brendon fell asleep. He came to the image of Jon flipping him over and jerking off onto his chest, the sounds he’d made.

If Brendon never had it again, (and why would he, Jon was with Cassie and Brendon had no idea what last night had been about) he didn’t think he’d ever forget the way Jon had looked at him, eyes soft and kind of sleepy, fingers sliding into Brendon’s hair to pull him close and kiss him.

Brendon stepped gingerly out of the shower, drying himself off and wincing a little. It had been a long time, and Brendon’s knees were a little wobbly. He leaned against the counter, took a couple deep breaths, and when he looked up at his reflection he muttered, “Enough.”

Everyone was waiting in the lobby when he dragged himself downstairs, his bag flung over his shoulder.

Jon was smiling. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt Brendon had last seen on Spencer, and he was ruffled and sleepy and adorable. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look like someone who had just fucked his best friend while his girlfriend waited at home for him. Brendon didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t stop looking at Jon, at the way the t-shirt dipped down to reveal the hollow of Jon’s throat, the scruff on his jaw from not shaving, the way his eyes were adorably crinkled from just having woken up.

Brendon was ridiculous, and this was starting to annoy him. He was tired.

They took a cab and said goodbye at La Guardia, the three of them saying goodbye to Jon in turns. Brendon hung back, and when Jon stepped forward, Brendon dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from saying or doing anything stupid.

“Bye, Brendon,” Jon mumbled against Brendon’s throat, his hands flat against Brendon’s back, warm and reassuring, and Brendon could almost pretend that nothing had changed.

Until he stepped back and looked at Jon, at the way Jon was looking at him, soft and sweet and private. It made Brendon flush hot, and he took a stumbled step backwards, because another second and he was going to pull Jon back and not let go.

 

2.

Brendon still remembered when coming home to Las Vegas felt like coming home to everything he’d missed. Now it just felt like a stop along the way. Only this time there was a restless feeling with it, a claustrophobic itch. He had no idea how long he’d be here this time, there wasn’t a definitive end. It made him anxious.

The dry heat hit the minute they stepped off the plane, barely June and already close to a hundred degrees.

It was still early, a little after noon, but Brendon just wanted to go home and sleep, see his dog and maybe figure out what he was going to do for the next three months.

Spencer and Ryan dropped him off at his condo. “Come over when you wake up,” Ryan shouted through the open window as Spencer peeled away from the curb, and Brendon just waved absently and let himself in.

Shane moved out seven months ago, which meant Brendon could do whatever he wanted.

Within the first twenty-four hours of being home, he walked around naked, drank orange juice directly from the carton and fell asleep on the sofa watching porn, after jerking off. It wasn’t actually all that different from when Shane had lived with him. He kept the ac turned up, now that he didn’t have to listen to Shane bitch about global warming, and he spent three hours drumming in the extra bedroom, the door open.

Brendon kept thinking about Jon. Wondering what he was up to which was entirely too masochistic for Brendon’s liking, so he sent him a text message, a quick “hope you made it okay,” and tried to put it out of his mind.

He made it through two days on his own, and then he went over to his parents’ house and let his mother make him grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches.

“I’m not doing your laundry,” she said when he walked through the front door with a giant bag full of three months worth of dirty clothes. “But you can use the washer and dryer,” she said by way of concession.

He left as the sun was setting with a bag of leftovers and his clean laundry, which his mother had folded for him while he was napping in front of the tv.

He drove to Ryan and Spencer’s house and didn’t bother knocking, just let himself in. It had taken them a year to finish. They kept arguing over everything from doorknobs to wood flooring and spent three months deciding on what kind of tile to put in the bathroom.

Spencer and Ryan were in the kitchen, a huge open room with cherry cabinets and an island, and they were standing at the stove, deep in an argument over whether cherry tomatoes had healing properties.

“Oh my god,” Brendon said, coming in and kicking his shoes off. “You two are so fucking married,” he muttered, snatching Spencer’s beer off the counter and finishing it in one go.

Spencer looked up laughing, and gave Brendon a ridiculous finger wave.

“For the record,” Ryan said, holding up a wooden spoon. “We’re in _platonic_ love.”

Brendon rolled his eyes and threw the beer bottle in one of four color coded recycling bins. “That doesn’t even make sense.” But he didn’t push it, because they’d been there, done that, and had barely survived the battle scars.

Spencer and Ryan built a fucking _house_ together. They had separate bedrooms, but Brendon knew for a fact that they ended up passed out in Spencer’s bed more often than not. He didn’t know what they were waiting for. But every time he brought it up Ryan would get this pinched look on his face, and Spencer would lock himself in the basement. It was pretty fucked up.

“Taste this,” Ryan said, holding a spoon out to Spencer. Spencer had a hand on Ryan’s hip and leaned forward to taste whatever it was Ryan thought he was cooking. Spencer made a face like he was gagging and rushed to the sink to spit.

“Jesus, what the hell is that?” Spencer choked out.

“It’s gazpacho,” Ryan said, peering into the pot. “I think, I might have put too much nutmeg in it.”

“In gazpacho? Ryan,” Spencer said slowly, filling a glass of water, “I’m pretty sure there’s not nutmeg in gazpacho. Are you sure that’s what the recipe called for?”

Ryan just blinked at Spencer.

“You’re not using a recipe?” Spencer looked pained.

“It’s cold tomato soup, who needs a recipe?”

Brendon was sitting at the counter on one of the ridiculously expensive bamboo stools, head going back and forth between Ryan and Spencer, watching their faces. “Apparently, you do, Ross,” Brendon said gleefully, chin in his hands.

Brendon liked Ryan and Spencer’s house. They had spent close to a year, before construction had ever even started, flipping through endless catalogues and brochures, picking out fixtures and accents, and by the time the building had begun, Brendon was tired of hearing about paint chips and glaze and Italian tile.

The deck was Brendon’s favorite part of the house. It wrapped around the back of the house and looked out into the endless expanse of desert, the sun setting over the rocks and bleeding out in oranges and pinks. He was sitting in one of the lounge chairs when Ryan came looking for him.

“Spencer says you and Jon fucked,” Ryan said, sitting on the arm of the chair, passing his beer to Brendon. Brendon felt himself get hot to the tips of his fingers but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t actually surprised that they knew, just maybe a little shocked at how little time it had taken.

Brendon sighed and took the beer. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t drink, just picked at the label with his thumbnail. He still had no idea what had happened between them, and had no clue where they stood. He didn’t particularly feel like talking about it with Ryan, who was in seven kinds of denial about his own relationship.

“Move over,” Ryan said and slid into the chair, his bony ass nudging Brendon into the wood frame. Brendon huffed and made room, lifting his leg and hooking his ankle over Ryan’s calve. He leaned against Ryan, comforted despite the hollow feeling in his stomach.

“Jon said something?” Brendon asked after a little while, staring down at his hands. They hadn’t talked. Brendon wasn’t sure if they were ever going to actually talk about it.

Ryan made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t think so. You know Spence, he doesn’t miss much.” Which was true, Spencer had this eerily uncanny ability to figure shit out when it usually flew right past the rest of them.

“You know it was inevitable, right?” Ryan’s voice had this urgent edge to it, and Brendon looked up sharply. Ryan was looking at him expectantly, like it was obvious and Brendon was missing something.

“What are you talking about? Jon’s with Cassie. Jon’s fucking in _love_ with Cassie.” Brendon’s palms itched and he fought the urge to get up and move. This whole thing was making his head hurt.

“Maybe.” Ryan made a humming sound and pulled the beer from Brendon’s hand, taking a swallow. He rested his wrists on his bent knees, and didn’t say anything for a little while.

“I just think,” Ryan said, after the sun had started to sink down behind the horizon, “it was going to happen sooner or later.” It was quiet after that because Brendon couldn’t think of one thing to say.

 

* * *

 

Brendon waited three days before calling Jon. It was an active attempt to give him space since Brendon’s first reaction to landing in Vegas with everything so garish and empty was to reach for his phone and call.

Jon didn’t pick up, which Brendon had mostly been expecting.

“It’s me,” Brendon said to Jon’s voicemail, leaning against the counter. “I just wanted to say hi. Um, we miss you. Call me.”

It wasn’t that big a deal, not really. Jon hadn’t seen Cassie in three months, of course he wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for Brendon to call.

But Brendon couldn’t stop thinking about Jon’s hands on his back when they’d said goodbye at the airport, Jon’s mouth brushing his cheek. But mostly he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Jon had cupped his jaw and opened his mouth, the way he’d kissed Brendon’s throat, fingers digging into Brendon’s hip.

Cash called and Brendon let him take him out and get him drunk, grateful for any sort of distraction, since it was less than four days in and Brendon was freaking out. Cash was very obviously trying to get him laid which Brendon should have been grateful for, but what happened instead was Brendon puked in the bathroom and passed out in the back seat of Cash’s car.

“If I didn’t feel so sorry for you I’d leave your ass on the side of the road,” Cash said when he shook Brendon awake.

He woke up on the floor outside the bathroom in his underwear, his mouth like cotton, a throb behind his eyeballs. He showered, took a couple aspirin, took Dylan for a quick walk around the block and called Jon three times.

He didn’t bother leaving a voice mail.

 

* * *

 

Brendon had been in Vegas for nine days, and he was climbing the walls. He’d caught up with the friends he hadn’t seen since before his birthday, spent just enough time with his family that he was ready to throttle someone, and had lost a day to a So You Think You Can Dance marathon on VH1.

He spent most of his time at Ryan and Spencer’s. There was always beer, always weed, and the fridge was always stocked, unlike at Brendon’s place where there was a bottle of hot sauce, a carton of milk, and whatever his mother had sent over the last time he mooched dinner from her.

Ryan and Spencer existed in this weird bubble where words weren’t necessary, like they could look at each other and have a conversation, and Brendon spent a lot of time talking mostly to himself, just to fill the silence.

It was getting late, and Brendon was sleepy, not really high, just a couple of hits from a pipe, and he was full with Indian food and beer, and it was nice in the living room. He tilted his head back against the sofa and looked up. There were skylights all over the house, so much light filtering through the rooms during the day.

They’d been home a week and a half, and Brendon still hadn’t talked to Jon. He’d called a few times, left a couple voice mails, and had sent a string of text messages about how absolutely boring daytime television was, catching Jon up on what had happened since the last time they’d watched One Life To Live.

Brendon still hadn’t talked to Jon, and it was starting to get under his skin. He wasn’t an idiot.

Brendon wandered into the kitchen to grab a beer. Spencer was leaning against the counter, chopping what looked like tofu and throwing it into a bowl of vegetables Brendon had never seen before.

“What’s that?” he said, standing on tiptoes to peer over Spencer’s shoulder.

“Stir fry,” Spencer said, handing Brendon a piece of what looked like bark. Brendon took it, and when Spencer wasn’t looking, tossed it back over his shoulder, figuring one of the dogs would grab it.

Brendon stole Spencer’s beer and went to sit at the table. He flipped through one of the catalogues on the table and listened to Spencer hum to himself. Ryan wandered in eventually, wearing what Brendon could have sworn was a giant night shirt.

Brendon wasn’t really paying attention, Spencer and Ryan having an intense conversation in facial expressions and hand gestures.

He looked up sharply when Ryan said, “so what did Jon say?”

“You talked to Jon?” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice, or off his face, judging from the way Spencer came up behind him and rested his hand on the back of Brendon’s neck.

“A little while ago,” Spencer said, fingers pushing through Brendon’s hair gently.

“Oh.” Brendon didn’t know what to say to that. He’d figured Jon was just catching up with Cassie and family and was too busy to call Brendon back. He hadn’t realized Jon just hadn’t been talking to Brendon.

Brendon shrugged like it wasn’t anything, like there was no reason for this to make his face heat up.

“He and Cassie broke up,” Spencer said quietly, and everything in Brendon went completely still. He turned and looked at Spencer who was watching him intently, like he was expecting Brendon to fall apart or lose his shit.

The way he said it, like he was breaking unpleasant news made Brendon think Spencer knew they hadn’t talked since leaving New York.

“Is he okay?” Brendon couldn’t keep from asking. It was a stupid question. Of course Jon wasn’t okay.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say much about it,” Spencer said like he was apologizing for something. He went back to the stir fry and Ryan sat down next to Brendon, putting his feet in his lap.

“Yeah, of course.” Brendon’s mouth felt dry, and his head was suddenly throbbing, the base of his skull burning.

Brendon wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do with this, with any of it. Jon and Cassie had broken up, and Jon wasn’t answering his phone for Brendon, but apparently he was talking to Spencer.

Brendon took off a little while later, turning down dinner and driving home on auto pilot. He called Jon four times in the ten minutes it took to get to his place. He left four messages, and the last one said, “pick up your phone, dickhead.”

Brendon slept with his phone next to his head and in the morning, having gotten less than four hours of sleep, he sat down at his computer to look up flights to Chicago. It wasn’t entirely rational, and Brendon was pretty sure he was the last person Jon wanted to see, but Brendon was a second past freaking out, already itching to get the hell out and _do_ something, and Jon was as good an excuse as any. Brendon _really_ didn’t want to be ignored.

Brendon hated flying. He hated flying, and he hated airports, and he hated, hated, _hated_ Jon for not answering his phone and for pushing Brendon away like Brendon had done something wrong. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there, but this wasn’t working for Brendon, not talking to Jon and not knowing what was going on and everything else aside, Jon was Brendon’s _friend_.

It took him ten minutes of looking to book a flight to Chicago, a flight that left in two hours because Brendon was going to crawl out of his skin, helpless and frustrated, and he needed to get the hell out. He needed to see Jon.

“Can you watch Dylan?” he said when Spencer picked up the phone, still mostly asleep, judging from the way his voice was rough and scratchy.

“Hi to you too,” Spencer said. In the background, Brendon could hear Ryan yell something he couldn’t quite decipher. Brendon huffed. “Hi, good morning, Spencer, can you please watch Dylan?”

“Why? Where are you going?” Spencer asked like he didn’t already know.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Brendon said knowing that there was no way he was going to get out of it. “Chicago, I’m going to Chicago.”

There was a long pause and then, “Okay, bring her over, we’ll take her.”

 

3.

The only bearable thing about the flight was that it was nonstop, and Brendon was in Chicago before six. He spent the entire time staring out the window and clutching the arm rests, like he hadn’t spent the last six years flying across oceans and countries. He sweet talked the flight attendant into giving him four mini bottles of vodka, but they ended up stuffed in his bag, his stomach too jittery. It was too late for second-guessing but he couldn’t help wondering if this was the thing to do when Jon clearly didn’t want to talk to him.

Chicago was humid. Brendon was soaked by the time he’d gotten his bag into the cab, his shirt clinging to him, sweat sliding down his cheek.

It took twenty minutes to get to Jon’s apartment from the airport, and when he got there, either Jon wasn’t home or he wasn’t answering.

Brendon called Ryan. “Can you find out if he’s home? He’s not picking up, and he’s not answering the door.” Brendon pressed his hand to the back of his neck, feeling like he shouldn’t have to do this, play this middle school game.

“Spence,” Brendon heard Ryan yell, “call Jon and find out if he’s home.” There was some muffled shouting and then Ryan said, “he’s got a spare key, in the flower box, it’s in the ceramic cat.”

“Fucking great,” Brendon muttered and then, apologetically, “thanks.”

“Good luck,” Ryan said and hung up.

Brendon found it and let himself in the through the heavy wooden front doors, up two flights of stairs.

Brendon wasn't sure what he’d been expecting, but Jon’s place was relatively clean. There weren't pizza boxes and beer cans thrown everywhere, and Jon wasn't passed out on the floor. There was just an eerie quiet.

Jon was in the spare room, sitting in the middle of the futon, legs crossed, watching CNN. He looked up when Brendon walked into the room. Brendon’s chest felt heavy, and whether from the heat or something else he couldn’t catch his breath. Jon was wearing an old white t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, his feet bare. He looked tired, worn around the edges and Brendon wanted to crawl into his lap and hold on.

“You’re watching CNN?” Brendon said lamely because it was either that or freak out and yell. Yelling wasn’t what he came here for, though now that he was standing here in front of Jon he couldn’t remember what it was that he _had_ come for.

Jon blinked, like he was seeing things that weren’t there. He licked his lips and tilted his head in a half shrug. “It was the only thing on.”

“You’re alive,” Brendon said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Jon was just looking up at him, mouth open like a fish. He made a face, like “what can you do?” and fiddled with the hem of his shorts.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Jon said, leaning back against the wall and kicking his legs out in front of him. Brendon moved into the room, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms. “Yeah, well,” he said, “you would have if you answered your phone.”

“I didn’t feel like talking.” Jon said quietly, like that explained everything. And Brendon understood that, he really did, but it just wasn’t good enough.

“Bullshit, Jon,” Brendon said finally, something snapping. “You talked to Spencer. You fucking talked to Ryan.” Brendon stood over Jon, grabbed the remote, thumbing the off button, and threw it on the floor.

Jon sighed and bent his legs, feet flat against the mattress, and rested his elbows on his knees. He pushed his fingers through his hair and Brendon recognized that, signs of Jon’s calm fraying.

“If you had just talked to me,” Brendon muttered, and he was just so tired of this ache in his chest, this heavy feeling. He wanted things to go back to the way they’d been when Jon talked to him, when Brendon felt like he could breathe easier. Something in Jon seemed to catch, flipping over and his face changed. “What was I supposed to say?”

“Look,” Brendon said, losing steam. “So we fucked.” Jon flinched. “Whatever, no big deal, but we’re friends. You could have just picked up the phone, said it wasn’t a good time, and I’d have fucked off. But this.” Brendon sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, feeling jittery and exhausted and like he should have just stayed away. “Don’t do _this_.”

“Why.” There was no inflection to the word, it was flat, and Brendon wanted to put his fist through Jon’s face that he had to ask. What the fuck had they been through the last six years if not for Brendon to be here when Jon was falling apart.

“Whatever you think,” Brendon said quietly, “I didn’t come to fight. I came to get you and bring you back with me. I’m not leaving you here.” Brendon moved to sit on the edge of the futon, his hand shoved under his thigh to keep from reaching out.

“I don’t want to go to Vegas,” Jon said and Brendon could relate, he didn’t really want to go back.

“So we won’t go to Vegas,” he conceded, “but I’m not leaving and we’re not staying here. You shouldn’t stay here.” Brendon hadn’t ever been through a break up, nothing serious anyway, not like this, but he figured staying in a place that held years’ worth of reminders was not the best thing. And there was the other side of it which was that Brendon and Jon really needed to figure their shit out, at the very least get to a place where there wasn’t this tension between them.

Jon tilted his head and gave Brendon a look he couldn’t read. “Well then, where?” There was a faint light, a slight interest, in his eyes and Brendon couldn’t help his small smile. “Wherever you want,” he said.

“I want to go to the ocean,” Jon said, resting his cheek on his folded arms, with this petulant set to his mouth that reminded Brendon of a five-year-old.

“So we’ll go to the ocean,” Brendon agreed. He kicked out of his shoes and sat on the edge of the futon. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked, because he was starving and jittery and food seemed like as good a distraction as any.

They ate deep dish pizza covered in peppers and onions, sitting cross legged on the living room floor, Dylan wandering between them to push his head at Brendon and curl himself up in Jon’s lap.

There was this heavy tension between the two of them, all that crap that was going unsaid and Brendon didn’t know how to open his mouth and fix it. And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

“We can leave tomorrow,” Jon said after they’d finished off the pizza and they were watching tv on opposite ends of the couch.

Brendon looked over at Jon. He had his feet tucked under him, Dylan asleep next to him and he was looking at Brendon expectantly.

“I can’t get on another plane,” Brendon said.

“Okay,” Jon said like that was that.

 

* * *

 

Brendon slept in the spare room. He didn’t do much sleeping, spent most of the night lying awake, listening to the sounds of the city. He’d been lying awake for close to an hour, and he wasn’t any closer to sleep when he heard the sound of Jon’s door opening. He held his breath, listening to the creaking of the floors.

Brendon didn’t move when the door opened. Jon came padding in, feet bare against the wood, and Brendon felt the bed creak, and Jon was crawling up to lie next to Brendon.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jon mumbled. They weren’t touching but Brendon could feel every inch of Jon, the heat of his skin soaking into Brendon. Jon smelled slightly sweaty, but mostly clean like soap and deodorant and Brendon shifted, just close enough that Jon’s fingers brushed his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered at one point, when Brendon was mostly almost asleep.

Brendon wasn’t sure what Jon thought he was apologizing for.

 

* * *

 

4.

Jon’s Prius was blue and barely three months old. Brendon was in love with it already.

“I’m not driving,” Jon mumbled around a yawn and crawled into the front seat, kicking off his flip flops and shoving his feet up onto the dash.

“Fine,” Brendon said like there was really any choice. He put Dylan’s carrier in the back seat and climbed into the driver’s side.

Jon turned and knelt over the back of the seat. “Come here,” he cooed and pulled Dylan into his lap.

"So,” Brendon said, turning on the GPS. “What ocean do you want to go to?"

Jon rested his head against the window and shrugged, closing his eyes. "This is your thing, not mine. Surprise me."

"So we'll go to Biloxi," Brendon mumbled, mostly to himself and tried to figure out how to get the GPS to tell him where to go. Biloxi, because he’d always wanted to go there and because Jon apparently didn’t want a say. The little map that popped up told him it took fourteen hours to get to Biloxi from Chicago. They could conceivably make it in one day, if they’d gotten started earlier. Brendon figured they’d make it as far as Memphis before they crashed. Or rather, before Brendon nodded off and got them killed.

“We need gas,” Brendon said, watching the needle as he started the car.

“And Red Vines,” Jon said sleepily. That was so familiar, Jon still sleepy and soft, smiling up at Brendon like if he asked nicely Brendon would bring him back whatever he wanted. And Brendon always had.

Brendon followed the directions towards the interstate and stopped at the first station they came across.

Brendon could tell from the sound of Jon’s breathing that he wasn’t quite asleep and Brendon leaned over and said softly, “want anything else?”

Jon stirred and opened his eyes. “Mm,” he said like a purr, “juice.”

Brendon filled the gas tank and returned with Red Vines and cranberry juice. Dylan was curled up on the floor, asleep in Jon’s flip flops and Jon was staring at his phone, texting someone.

“Here you go,” Brendon said, sliding into his seat and handing Jon the plastic bag.

“Thanks,” Jon mumbled. “Spencer wants to know how you’re doing and if she-Dylan is allergic to tofu.”

“Oh my God, they better not feed her that crap,” Brendon said, rolling his eyes.

“Duly noted,” Jon said drily and went back to texting.

Brendon followed the signs towards the interstate and felt like he was holding his breath as he tried to merge with traffic. Driving in Chicago freaked him out and it wasn’t until they’d merged onto I-94 and left the city congestion behind that he could breathe a little easier.

“Where are we going?” Jon wanted to know, looking up from his phone.

“Mississippi,” Brendon told him. “Biloxi. Maybe we can hit up a casino while we’re there.”

“Huh. I’ve never stood in the Gulf of Mexico,” Jon said and the way he said it, a sort of awe to his voice, made Brendon duck his head to hide his smile.

Brendon had never driven a Prius before, and he was so in love with it he was thinking he might have to get one when he got back home. He set the cruise control hovering at eighty and sunk lower in the seat.

Summer had started which meant the interstate was crowded, mini vans packed with kids headed on vacation, Camrys stuffed full with dirty laundry and college kids headed home.

Brendon had spent the majority of the last six years on the road but he’d never really done _this_ , not really. Vegas to LA only took four hours and Brendon remembered thinking he wouldn’t have minded if they’d kept going.

The car was quiet and Brendon wasn’t used to spending time with Jon and not talking, or even singing, some kind of noise. He didn’t particularly want to talk, but his shoulders were tense with all the things they should talk about, like why Jon and Cassie had broken up, (Brendon really wanted to ask) and why Jon hadn’t called, and why they’d even fucked in the first place. Brendon wasn’t sure he’d take that part back, even if it meant that heartbroken, puppy dog look in Jon’s eyes disappeared. And that just made Brendon feel five kinds of selfish.

 

* * *

 

They’d been on I-57 for a little over three hours. Jon’s iPod was plugged into the radio and Brendon was singing softly to Bring it On Home when Jon said, so suddenly and quietly Brendon had to glance over to make sure he’d heard him, “I told her. Cassie.”

Jon was staring out the windshield. “I wasn’t going to, but I couldn’t lie to her.”

Brendon opened his mouth but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the road.

“She said she’d always thought it was just a matter of time.” There was something in Jon’s voice, something soft and distant and Brendon couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was missing something here, something pretty fucking big. So he just said, “what?”

Jon shrugged. He had his hands under his legs, sitting on his wrists, thumbs digging into his thighs. It was oddly defensive and Brendon was so fucking confused right now.

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Come on Brendon,” Jon said, blowing out a sigh. “You’re not an idiot. Remember San Diego?”

“You said no,” Brendon mumbled, still not getting it. Because he did remember San Diego, at the end of recording their third album. It had been three in the morning, they’d been the last two to leave the studio and Brendon had pushed up onto the balls of his feet, opening his mouth over Jon’s, fingers caught in Jon’s t-shirt.

“You pushed me away,” Brendon said, voice caught.

“I kissed you back,” Jon said like this was the point and Brendon was just being obtuse. Brendon remembered that, the way Jon’s tongue had pushed into his mouth, licked once at Brendon’s and then Jon was stumbling backwards, hand on Brendon’s chest, an almost shove.

“And then you pushed me away,” Brendon practically shouted, feeling kind of hysterical, like this was some huge joke being played on him.

“I had a girlfriend. I had Cassie,” Jon said, exasperated. “Brendon.” Jon sighed and turned his head to stare out the window and Brendon felt like crying. Jon had been nice about it, of course he had, it was _Jon_ but Brendon hadn’t been able to talk to him for days afterward, embarrassed for wanting something so out of his reach.

“That was the first time,” Jon said after a little while.

“What?” Brendon said sharply, turning to look at Jon. Jon was watching him, his cheeks faintly pink.

“That was the first time I realized I didn’t know what I wanted.” He said it softly, a quiet admission that took Brendon completely by surprise.

“I still don’t know why you didn’t just call me,” Brendon said. “You could have talked to me.”  
“No, Brendon, I couldn’t. I really fucked up,” Jon said and there was pain in the way he said it.

“I shouldn’t have done it, not just because I was with Cassie.” Jon paused and Brendon looked over at him. He was staring at his hands in his lap. “I used you.”

The way Jon said it, like he was forcing the words out, made Brendon’s chest tight.

“Whatever,” Brendon said because he’d changed his mind, he didn’t want to talk about this at all.

“Not _whatever_ , Brendon,” Jon said sharply. Brendon felt slightly nauseous because it was true but what was worse was nothing had happened that Brendon hadn’t wanted to happen. He’d wanted it for too long, long enough that he wouldn’t have said no even if he hadn’t been feeling vulnerable, already missing something that hadn’t yet gone.

“I didn’t stop you,” Brendon said, his teeth clenched, a headache forming at the base of his skull. “Okay? So whatever you’re feeling guilty over, like you conned me into something I didn’t want, just stop.”

“Brendon,” Jon said plaintively. Brendon shook his head and reached for the volume dial. “Done talking about it,” he said warningly.

“Fine,” Jon muttered, “be a fucking infant about it.”

 

* * *

 

It was close to four. They were crossing into Tennessee when Jon announced he had to take a leak, the only words either of them had spoken in the last two hours. Brendon needed a break, he needed to get out of the car and run around a lake or something, kick or scream or just hit something because there was all this tension and frustration sitting heavy in his stomach and it was making him antsy.

Brendon pulled into the parking lot of the first gas station off the exit and before he’d killed the engine Jon was wrenching the door open and getting out.

Brendon felt like yelling after him but it was a waste of time. He couldn’t help the feeling that he should be apologizing for something but he wasn’t going to say he was sorry for not wanting to deal with Jon’s issues.

Brendon bought a bottle of apple juice and a bag of Sunchips and went to sit in the car and wait.

 

* * *

 

“Are you hungry?” Brendon asked because it had been six hours since Chicago.

“Mm, yeah,” Jon mumbled sleepily, stretching so his shirt rode up his belly. Brendon’s fingers itched and he kept his eyes forward.

There was a truck stop coming up in a few miles, an hour outside of Memphis, one they’d always stopped at when they were passing through on tour.

“Hey,” Jon said softly, and Brendon felt his stomach tighten with something like nerves. “Remember the last time we were here?”

Brendon swallowed, his cheeks heating up. He didn’t know why Jon was bringing that up, of course Brendon remembered, he’d spent a lot of time wishing he could have taken it back.

Brendon had gotten a little too drunk, a little too lonely and Jon had been smiling, touching Brendon the way he always did, easy and light, and Brendon couldn’t keep from pressing his face against Jon’s neck and mumbling, “I love you” in a way that he never had before.

Jon had just laughed, throwing an arm around Brendon’s shoulders and saying, “love you too, buddy.” It wasn’t at all what Brendon had wanted and he couldn’t make himself shut up, the alcohol in his blood making him stupid and careless and he’d just pushed at Jon’s arm and called him an idiot.

“Jon,” Brendon sighed, not wanting to pick another fight but really, _really_ not wanting to talk about this.

“Brendon,” Jon said and he was frowning, brow creased. “Why do you do that?” There was a note of exasperation in Jon’s voice, and Brendon had a feeling he really didn’t want to hear what Jon was about to say.

“Do what?” He licked his lips, mouth dry, and bounced his foot against the car floor.

“You just completely shut down, every time I bring it up.” Jon had his legs underneath him, and he was leaning towards Brendon like he was trying to get in Brendon’s face.

“Bring _what_ up?” Brendon didn’t actually want to know, but there was no door to disappear through or bed to hide under.

“Your fucking feelings about me.” And there it was, like a dirty word.

Brendon hated that word. And he really, really hated talking about it, about how he’d been in love with Jon since the Truckstops and Statelines tour and how Jon had known about it since four minutes after Brendon had. He didn’t want to talk about it, and he especially didn’t want to talk about it with Jon which probably wasn’t fair since Jon had told him about Cassie, but whatever. Jon had his issues, and Brendon had his own.

“I do not,” Brendon said, and he could hear how fucking childish he sounded but he couldn’t keep the words in.

“Brendon,” Jon said quietly, so earnest Brendon couldn’t hep but turn to look at him.

“What do you want me to say?” Brendon said helplessly. “I don’t even know why you brought that up, are you trying to embarrass me?”

“What?” Jon looked taken aback and Brendon tried to keep his eyes on the road. “No,” Jon said, insistent. “I don’t know why, I just. I was thinking about it.”

“Yeah, well,” Brendon muttered, “don’t.” Jon reached out and touched Brendon’s wrist where his hand was clutching the steering wheel, curled his fingers around Brendon’s skin and pulled until Brendon let go.

“It was always bad timing,” Jon said quietly, staring at where his thumb rubbed at the thin skin of Brendon’s wrist. Brendon’s arm tingled, and he shivered and snatched his hand back, unable to look at Jon because Jon _had_ to know what he was doing, and that wasn’t fucking fair.

“You know what, Jon?” Brendon hissed, flexing his fingers and curling them into his palm, “Quit fucking around with me.”

“I’m not,” Jon said, sounding wounded. Brendon rolled his eyes, he didn’t believe that for a fucking second. It felt like this game Jon was playing, a joke, and Brendon was the punch line.

“You could trust me a little bit,” Jon sighed, and leaned back against the seat, body turned so he was half pressed up against the door, head back, watching Brendon.

Brendon couldn’t really see how he was supposed to, but he was tired of arguing, tired of the awkward, heavy silences, so he just kept his mouth shut.

The exit for the truck stop came up and Brendon took it, pulling into the parking lot. It was still fairly early, not yet six, but the place was packed with people.

They left the windows open for Dylan and went inside to find a booth.

“I’m starving,” Jon said after the waitress had taken their drink orders and they had their heads bent over their menus.

Brendon wasn’t actually all that hungry, all the tension from the afternoon sitting heavy and unpleasant in his stomach.

When their waitress came back around, Brendon asked for a chocolate milk shake and Jon looked over, grinning, “You going to share?” and for a brief moment, everything was familiar again. Brendon couldn’t help but smile back, tilt his head like he was thinking about it and said, “Maybe, if you behave.”

They sat in silence after that, awkward quiet that felt weird given all the years they’d spent together in situations like this one, amusing themselves, making each other laugh.

“I don’t want to be a rebound,” Brendon blurted out, and he blanched as soon as the words spilled out. He wanted everything, but he didn’t want this, Jon confused and coming to Brendon because he couldn’t have Cassie, didn’t get to have both.

“No,” Jon said, and Brendon might have smiled at how earnest Jon was if his heart hadn’t been in his throat. “That’s not what this is about.”

Brendon didn’t think he believed him.

“Brendon,” Jon said quietly, leaning forward, and this was really not the time for this. Brendon shouldn’t have said anything. “I know you have no reason to trust me.” Brendon opened his mouth to say something but Jon just shook his head. “No, listen, I fucked up. Things are fucked up. But, can we just. Start over?”

Brendon picked at his straw wrapper, shredding it into pieces. He didn’t say anything but when the waitress brought their order, Brendon wordlessly slid his milkshake over to Jon.

 

* * *

 

Brendon could hardly keep his eyes open by the time he found an exit with lodging. They were an hour into Mississippi, and there had been nothing around for the last fifty miles. He pulled into the dimly lit parking lot of the first motel he’d seen in an hour, the vacancy sign flashing arrhythmically.

Jon was asleep against the door, mouth open, head slumped down. Brendon put the room on his credit card and went back to the car to shake Jon awake. His skin was warm, slightly sweaty from the humidity when Brendon touched his wrist and mumbled, “Jon, hey, wake up.”

It took a second, Jon blinking, confused. “What?” he whispered, looking at Brendon.

“Come on, I got a room,” he said quietly, waiting. Jon made a face, disoriented, and sat upright.

Brendon grabbed Dylan off the back seat and his backpack, and Jon followed.

Brendon didn’t bother turning on the lights, just shoved the desk chair underneath the doorknob, kicked out of his shoes and crawled into bed, on top of the covers. Jon lay down next to Brendon and groaned, “it’s hot.”

Brendon made a noise in agreement and turned to his side. The air was sticky and stale and uncomfortable. He was suddenly wide awake, painfully aware of Jon next to him.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon mumbled, stifling a yawn. Brendon turned his head on the pillow to look at Jon. He shrugged. “Things are weird.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said after a bit.

Jon's fingers brushed Brendon's and his stomach clenched. “Brendon,” Jon whispered. Brendon could feel him shift closer.

Jon’s lips brushed against Brendon’s ear, his fingers curling around Brendon’s. Brendon reflexively closed his hand around Jon’s, and Jon made a soft humming sound.

Brendon’s face was warm, the rest of him covered in sweat from the shitty air circulation and Jon’s body heat pressed up tight against him.

“Brendon,” Jon mumbled and pulled back, eyes on Brendon, just to look. “It’s not too late. Maybe it feels like it is, but it’s not.”

Brendon was pretty sure there wasn’t ever going to be a _right_ time because everything between them had started off all wrong, like they were working backwards.

Jon trailed his lips down Brendon’s jaw, his mouth open against his skin, breath warm. Brendon didn’t move away, but he didn’t turn into it either, held himself still, breath caught in his chest.

“Okay,” Jon mumbled around a yawn, pressing the fingertips of his free hand to the curve of Brendon’s neck.

Brendon fell asleep with Jon's fingers still wrapped around his, and when he woke up they were sharing a pillow, facing each other, foreheads touching.

It was early morning, the pre-dawn light throwing shadows against the walls, Jon’s face pale in the darkness.

“Maybe,” Brendon whispered, “we don’t have to figure anything out right now.” He said it like a question and it felt like a plea, just to let things fall where they may and not have to fix anything. Brendon didn’t know if that was possible, given all the ways they’d fucked up. He didn’t want to leave this behind. His head hurt and he was getting tired of not being able to breathe with the tension between them. But it was too late for things to go back to the way it had been before. Brendon didn’t really want it to, he just wanted to be past all this, to be stupid in love and not have to work through Jon’s issues and Brendon’s own fears.

“While we’re figuring it out,” Jon breathed against Brendon’s jaw, and Brendon could hear the teasing, mischievous note in his voice, “maybe we can have kissing time.” He pressed his lips to the corner of Brendon’s mouth, a soft brush. Brendon sighed into it, fingers curling in Jon’s sweat damp hair.

Jon made a low rumbling noise and Brendon hummed, licking into Jon’s mouth like he could swallow the sound, absorb it into himself. Jon hooked his thumb in Brendon’s waist and pulled so Brendon was leaning over him, braced on his arms.

It changed quickly, from teasing and light to urgent and frantic, Jon digging his fingers into the base of Brendon’s skull, Brendon pressing down hard against Jon.

Jon slid his palms underneath Brendon’s t-shirt and Brendon clung and arched and trembled, opening his mouth under Jon’s tongue.

This time Jon pushed Brendon’s arms over his head, wrists caught in his fingers and Brendon wrapped his legs around Jon’s waist and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jon’s face, from sweat sliding down his cheek, his swollen lips.

 

5.

Biloxi was two hundred miles away when they saw the billboard, the colors bright and beckoning, “Neshoba County Fair, through the end of July.”

Brendon looked over at Jon, grinning. “The ocean can wait,” Jon agreed, eyes bright.

The clouds had gotten darker, a storm coming on but the place was still crowded with little kids and teenagers. Brendon grabbed Jon's wrist and took off for the entrance and the teenage girl selling tickets for the rides.

Her eyes widened and her cheeks got red when she saw them, and Brendon just flashed her a grin and said, "Hey, can we have twenty tickets, please?"

She stammered and nodded, opening and closing her mouth soundlessly, but she managed to count out the tickets and only dropped Brendon's money twice.

"What do you want to go on first?" Jon said as they took in the lights and zinging noises of the tilt-a-whirl.

"Let's go on the Ferris Wheel," Brendon said, tilting his head back to look up at the people on the top who were rocking the carriage. "And then," Brendon said brightly, feeling excited like he hadn't felt since the tour ended, "we can get cotton candy and corn dogs and ride the roller coaster and see if we throw up."

"You sure know how to impress a guy.” Jon folded his fingers in Brendon’s and let Brendon lead the way.

The air smelled like grease, like elephant ears and soft serve and hot dogs, and Brendon felt like he was eleven again.

They rode the Ferris Wheel, and Jon wrapped his fingers around the bars and leaned forward so far Brendon thought he might have a heart attack. "Oh my god, Jon, sit down, you're going to fall out and die."

Jon threw his head back and laughed, and Brendon felt his heart hammer loudly in his ears, his stomach flopping stupidly like that first time all over again when he'd realized he was crazy in love.

Afterward, they played ring toss and skee ball, and Brendon spent twenty dollars trying to win Jon a giant purple panda. What he got instead was a tiny green cat with enormous black eyes that really freaked Brendon out.

"Thanks," Jon beamed when Brendon handed it over, "I'm gonna call him Slurpy."

The woman who sold them their cotton candy called Brendon "Sugar", had a voice like she'd spent the last forty years smoking two packs a day, and skin like leather.

"Here you go, Sugar" she said with a heavy drawl as she handed the cotton candy over to Brendon. Brendon reached for his wallet and Jon put a hand on his wrist. "I got it," he said.

"Well aren't you two adorable," the woman said, and Brendon was afraid she was going to start cooing in a second.

"Okay, thanks," Brendon said hurriedly and pulled Jon along. They sat at a picnic table next not far from where a pen was set up for what looked like pig racing. Brendon laughed out loud and pulled out his phone to take a picture because Spencer and Ryan had to see this. “Oh my God, I love it here,” Brendon said gleefully.

It was getting dark, the rain starting to fall when they wandered back towards the entrance to stand in line for the carousel. Jon leaned against the barrier, Brendon standing between his legs. “So,” Jon said, tucking his thumb in Brendon’s belt loop, “if this is our first date, do I get a good night kiss?" Jon smelled sweet, powdered sugar left over from the funnel cake they’d shared between the fun house and the bumper cars.

Brendon leaned forward to tuck his nose against Jon’s neck, not caring about the people milling about or the fact that they were both kind of sweaty and gross. “You play your cards right,” he said, low and quiet, hooking his finger in the neck of Jon’s t-shirt, “you might get more than that.”

 

[ the end ]


End file.
